One week had slipped by since I last begged Christopher Lutherson to take up that case, and that caught his attention. The silence led him to believe that my pride was finally crushed. His arrogance drove the texts that came next.

"You're coming to the celebration party tonight. Do as I say, and I'll consider taking your father's case. This is your last chance. Don't try to guilt-trip me with your childish notion of unfairness."

My phone screen lit up, but I showed no reaction. I simply signed the divorce papers.

For five years of marriage, all I had ever known was humiliation. I endured every disgrace, every torment, just to beg the legendary lawyer Christopher to save my father, who had been framed.

He knew my father was innocent, yet he made sure the most crucial evidence didn't see the light of court, all to please his first love. He did nothing but stand by while my father was tormented.

My father succumbed to the inferno they called prison. Seven days ago, he took his own life to prove his innocence.

I only stayed with Christopher for five agonizing years so my father would have his name cleared and be released from prison. Christopher never knew that.

The legendary lawyer had won countless cases, but in the end, he made me lose the only person I had left in this world.

My father was dead. It was time for me to leave.

Cruel Husband

The lock on the door creaked and turned as my phone went dark. I was seated on the couch, my eyes on the signed papers lying on the coffee table.

Christopher came in. A faint trace of women's perfume clung to him. I recognized that scent. Rachel Riviera's favorite.

Christopher made his way to the coffee table and gave the papers a cursory glance. All he did was let out a short laugh.

"You certainly come up with new tricks fast, Natalie." He picked up the papers, crushed them in one hand without even skimming the contents, and tossed them into the trash.

"It was a hunger strike last week, and now you bring up divorce. What else would you do just to make me take your father's case? Suicide? How many times do I have to tell you, winning this case without any new evidence is nearly impossible!"

I looked at him, my heart calm. "This isn't a trick," I retorted with a tone cooler than I ever took with him. "This is serious. Sign the papers."

Christopher looked down at me as if he were above everything, above everyone. "Seriously, you can't even survive in this city without me. The party starts at eight tonight. Hotel Kebinsky."

He turned as if the conversation were already over and could not be bothered to spare me another second.

"You will attend Rachel's celebration. Go on the stage, apologize, and confess that you were delusional when you made a scene at the art exhibit. Do that, and my assistant will go through your father's case. This is your last chance."

The city witnessed a downpour seven days ago.

It was the day I got my hands on a crucial testimonial. That testimonial was proof my father was framed.

I ran as fast as my legs could take me and barged into Christopher's law firm, drenched.

I demanded to see him, but the receptionist stopped me. "Mr. Lutherson's at the art exhibit with Ms. Riviera. He's not taking any guests. Do you have an appointment, Ms. Shayman?"

An appointment just to see my own husband. The absurdity of it would have been laughable if it had not already destroyed me. But that rule had been Christopher's.

Rachel hated disturbances to her schedule, so her executive assistant was the one who planned Christopher's itinerary.

Even I had to go through the system and put in my application if I wanted to see him. Fewer than one out of ten applications was approved over the last five years. Christopher was always busy or Rachel's assistant made sure my appointment was at three in the morning.

That day, I waited outside the law firm for ten hours. Again and again, I texted Christopher. I begged quietly, "Please, just one look. Just one look is all I need."

…

It wasn't until ten at night that Christopher appeared.

His arm was around Rachel, and she was in a white, perfectly unsullied dress. I, on the other hand, was soaked and disheveled, but I didn't care. I wanted to charge right at him and show him the evidence.

But Christopher only frowned. Then, he turned away with Rachel, shielding her from the rain with his own body, and left without giving me even a second of his attention.

That same night, my father succumbed to the demons of prison and took his own life to prove his innocence.

My mind returned to the present. A special notification alarm buzzed. I unlocked my phone just in time to see Rachel posting an update.

Christopher's Disdain

It was a photo.

Christopher's hand was wrapped around Rachel's as they sliced the cake open. His tenderness was something I'd never seen in our marriage.

Rachel's caption read, 'Justice runs late because it has a surprise for me: Christopher. I'm such a spoiled girl!'

Christopher bought out the time slots for all the screens in the city just to celebrate Rachel's victory in a rights to reputation case, or so that was how they called it. All I did was mention Rachel being the financial director for the project that ended up framing my father.

To defend her, Christopher mobilized his whole legal team and painted me as a deranged woman who loved to slander everyone around her.

I tapped the like button under the photo. Moments later, my phone exploded with messages from Christopher.

"I know that's sarcasm, Natalie! Go change and get here right now! If you're even one second late, I'm never taking that case, you hear me?'

Though separated by screens, I could imagine the disgust on Christopher's face, yet I didn't argue. 'Sure,' I texted back, but I approached the floor-standing aquarium and dropped my phone into the water.

The device sank and sank until it hit the bottom. Bubbles rose to the surface. The screen flickered once, twice, then went dark.

At last, silence.

I went into the bedroom and pulled out a red-and-blue woven bag from underneath the bed. That bag held the items I brought along after the wedding. Old, bleached T-shirts I got from a dollar store and a grayscale photo of my late father.

I carefully wrapped the photo with my clothes and cradled it in my arms.

This mansion was worth millions, yet only these were the things I could truly call mine. I changed into an old T-shirt with a stretched collar and a pair of jeans.

My reflection showed a pale woman with dark circles under her eyes, but her gaze had never looked clearer.

As I walked out of the mansion, the guard shot me a weird look. "Where are you going, ma'am?"

I ignored his question. With nothing but the clothes on my back and the woven bag, I walked into the heavy darkness of the night.

Christopher waited at the hotel, and the clock struck nine. The champagne tower was having its third refill.

Rachel had both hands looped around his arm as she complained softly, "Maybe she's angry, Christopher. Perhaps I should apologize too. I share some of the blame. I can understand why she misunderstood."

"You don't need to apologize to her," Christopher cut in, his expression icy. "She wanted you to apologize in public. She deserves a taste of her own medicine."

Yet I never came.

The obedient, submissive Natalie, who had always done as she was told, had stood him up.

This was a hit to Christopher's authority, and that was enough firewood for his fury. "Very well, then."

Christopher gritted his teeth and called me. "The number you have dialed is unavailable," a cold, mechanical voice replied.

Christopher let out a humorless laugh. 'She's going to use every trick under the sun just to make me bow, isn't she?'

In the end, he flung Rachel's hands away and stormed out of the venue.

"I'll need to see what she's up to this time."

What greeted him was a pitch-black mansion. Christopher turned on the lights, but the graveyard silence that lingered in the air made him panic, though only for a moment. Fury took over soon after.

"Get out here, Natalie!" There was no response.

Christopher charged into the bedroom, but not a single luxury item had gone missing. The closet was untouched, and so was the safe that housed the jewelry.

"I knew it. It's an act." Cold laughter slithered out of Christopher's lips. "Nothing's taken. That means she's crying in a convenience store."

Christopher came back down, and, from the corner of his eye, noticed something shining in the aquarium. He came closer only to find out it was my phone. At the same time, he received a transaction message from the bank.

"Your supplementary card ending in 8888 has been charged 1 dollar at Family Mart."

The message filled Christopher with so much disdain that it was oozing out of his eyes. "Is this your resolve? You left the house and used my card for instant ramen?"

Christopher tossed his phone onto the couch. He was confident my little escape act would never last the night.

The relentless ringing of the doorbell the next morning was what woke him. Still half-asleep, he called out without thinking.

Natalie's Message

"Get the door, Natalie."

Christopher was met with nothing but silence. That was a reminder that I'd never come home.

Frustrated, he got out of bed to answer the door himself.

It was a courier, and he handed Christopher a hefty package. "Wedding anniversary package from a Ms. Shayman."

Christopher frowned upon hearing that.

He hauled the package into the house and sliced the tapes open with a box cutter. He expected scarves or handmade figurines, but none came out. Only the scent of mildew hit him.

The package housed piles of receipts, all neatly tied up.

Christopher scooped up the uppermost receipt. It had details about my blood extraction and dated back five years ago, on the 12th of October. I had 400ccs taken and was paid 30 dollars.

He froze for a moment, but he broke out of his reverie and went on reading. The receipts showed letters of consent that came from pharmaceutical companies regarding drug testing, underground blood selling, and more.

There were hundreds of them. Five full years' worth. Every single one of them was proof that I had risked my life over and over.

At the very bottom of the box lay a wrinkled letter. The handwriting was mine, albeit scrawling and hideous.

It read, 'You once told me, Christopher, that I married you just so I could live well. But during our entire marriage, I never received a single cent from you. You said room and board were more than enough, but my father was in prison. He needed toiletries. Clean clothes. Basic necessities. This was how I earned that money.'

Christopher's hands trembled. He'd seen the bruises on my arms when we were in bed once. "Did you catch some disease messing around out there? Don't come near me. I don't want to get infected."

Back then, I had said nothing. I had only lowered my head and silently pulled my sleeve down over the marks.

…

Christopher slammed the box closed as a storm brewed within him. "Very well, Natalie," he hissed and called his assistant right away.

"Freeze all of Natalie's cards right now! And make sure the whole city knows they'll be making an enemy out of me if they try to take Natalie's case!" He hung up right away, but something in his chest was aching to get out, yet it was stuck like glue.

His eyes drifted around the room, but they stopped at the porch. A pair of men's slippers sat on the ground. It was the pair he wore all the time.

There were holes where the soles once were, but someone had patched it up with soft rubber pads. They were soft on the soles and comfortable to wear.

Though the house had a dozen new slippers, this pair was the one he loved to wear. Christopher stared at them, irritation rising in his chest for reasons he refused to name.

Just then, Rachel called.

The moment he answered, her voice came through, shaky and upset. "I tried to apologize, but Natalie has deleted all her socials. It's impossible to reach her phone either. She's still angry at me!"

Christopher's heart sank. He quickly checked his socials, but my account was already deleted, and there was no profile picture at all. There was no trace of me on social media.

"Ignore her," he replied, but something in his throat felt tight. "She's trying to make me bow, but I assure you, she'll be at my firm in three days, begging for my help!"

Christopher hung up and scanned the empty mansion. His eyes returned to the patched slippers, and he sneered.

"I still hold your biggest weakness, Natalie. As long as your father is still in prison, you'll never escape me." Then, he straightened his tie and walked out of the house like a man convinced he still held all the power.

Unbeknownst to him, I was in a 50-square-foot basement hiding somewhere in the slums. Rainwater dripped from the ceiling. I sat by the tiny basement window, an urn of ashes resting in my arms—cold, solid, silent.

In one hand, I held half a piece of stale bread. I chewed mechanically, like a machine forcing itself to keep running.

I had no tears trailing down my face, nor did I have any emotions to show.

"Breakfast, Dad," I said softly to the urn.

…

Three days after leaving Christopher, I found work at a small company that handled specialized cleaning jobs.